Red Cabin Window

Poem No. 218

I’ve written before about the way art is less a mode of expression for me, and more a mode of study. When I sit down at my desk to work on a poem, a novel, or a drawing, I typically feel more student than professor.

That’s definitely true for this poem, which somehow contains more wisdom than I myself usually possess:

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Red Cabin Window

My first memory
was formed in a red cabin
on a lake in Maine

as my mother lifted me
to watch a stag
step, stately and majestic,

down the silent snowy road.
And I am forever grateful
my first awareness in this life

convinced me the world waits
to take my breath away, 
if I’ll only take a moment

to glance out my kitchen window.

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It’s easy to get caught up in a busy week, and to forget the ordinary awe all around us. I’m grateful for the way poetry brings me back to such beauty, again and again. And I’m grateful for this newsletter and all of you readers, for bringing me back to poetry, again and again.

I hope this week’s poem finds you well, and with a nearby windowful of awe.
~ A

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